


Veterans of Heaven

by gloss



Category: LA to Vegas
Genre: M/M, Makeouts, handos, pilot lore, post ep 1x6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 13:46:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13859010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: Post "Pilot Fight", Captain Dave's in love and about to hook up with Captain Steve."Who are we, Dave?"Dave gulps and tastes Steve's cologne on his lips. "Reckless flyboys up for anything?""Yes! We are men of the air!Pilots!Sons of Lindbergh and Yeager, Doolittle and the Red Baron! Armstrong and Gagarin! We can do this!"





	Veterans of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Audiencing & cheering by the incredibly lovely @orchis. Title from [poem](http://www.bartleby.com/236/243.html) by Francis Thompson.
> 
> Go watch this show, it is ridiculous fun.

Obviously, they were meant to be.

They're so copacetic, they even use the same swanky hotel at the airport for post- and pre-flight hookups. At least, the Jet Stream Hilton is the one that Dave _would_ use, if he'd had this sort of hookup previously. He'd always planned to go here, maybe treat the lucky lady to a rose-colored Mai Tai in the Wind Shear Lounge, before proceeding upstairs.

He could really go for that cocktail himself right now. His skin is tight and a little warm, like he put it on backwards. He keeps looking at the bare space above Steve's lip where the mustache should be. The skin there is pale, pinkish, slightly speckled. It looks very soft.

_Tender_ , Dave thinks, it looks tender, then wonders why he's thinking about this at all.

The elevators are all glass, so Dave can see their reflections a million times around them. It's nice, it's like there's a crowd of Daves and Steves cheering them on, gathering in to watch and offer fraternal support.

Steve's so cool, he has his own access key. _Monogrammed_ , with a pair of wings and a big scrolly **S**.

"Perk of the frequent banger," he says with a wink that Dave would kill to master as he swipes it through the lock. "You get it."

"Sure," Dave says. "Yeah, of course."

Inside the room, Steve sheds his jacket and hangs up his hat, then holds out his hand. The setting sun burns through the smog out the window, lighting up his outline, his silver hair going to platinum, then something brighter than that.

Dave takes his hand and squeezes.

Steve looks down, then back up. "Wanted your hat, man. Can't leave it just anywhere. That'd ruin the lines."

"No, of course not," Dave replies. He's so embarrassed, yet he can't let go, either. Instead, he laces their fingers together and steps closer. He's being drawn by some other force. Probably Ronnie. She's very persuasive and pretty damn wise.

If he lets go now, he's going to lose whatever respect he's managed to inspire in Steve. If he keeps going, however, he's going to tumble off into the full unknown and then what?

Then, maybe, he would fly.

Or crash into a thousand pieces.

"David," Steve says softly. He looks up at Dave, bare upper lip curving as he smiles.

"Steven," Dave says. "Or is it Stephen? God, there's so much I don't know!"

Steve nods, his eyes tracking back and forth. They're very dark and warm. "Stefan, actually."

"Right, of course."

The sky is streaked with reds and golds and even some shades of lilac. The edges of the clouds look sharp, blades seen straight on and glaring. Dave blinks and looks back at Steve.

Steve's still looking at him. His focus is so much better, no wonder he does international flights. Dave did the Sacramento to Saskatoon turn once and nearly banged his head through a window from the boredom.

"You know what you're doing," Steve says.

Dave nods. Maybe he does! Probably he does, if Steve thinks so. He cups Steve's cheek with his free hand and leans in, kisses him, shivers at contact, and kisses again.

"That was a question," Steve says when the kiss dwindles and breaks. He's smiling though, tip of his tongue darting over his tender upper lip.

Dave chases it with his kisses and walks them back, and back, until they're against the window and the sky is swallowing them up. Their uniform shirts open easily, their hands slip over regulation undershirts and tug open their identical belts.

"Trust me," Dave says, confidence surging through him, deepening his voice. "I'm a captain."

"So am I," Steve says, and they go still at the same time. "Oh, no."

"Shit."

One of them has to fly, right? The other is just there for support and company. _Maybe_ to take over if the captain has a sudden coronary, but that only happens a couple times a year, max, at Jackpot.

"We could...switch?" Steve sounds doubtful even as he says it.

"Share, somehow?"

"How would that work?"

Dave knocks his head against the window a couple times. He's never even looked longer than the polite amount of time at other guys in the locker room! He's drowning here, out of his depth. "I don't know."

He's so hard and his throat's raw and he just wants to be kissing again. He likes kissing, kissing is very good, and Steve's kisses are fantastic.

"Dave," Steve says. "Brother. Talk to me."

Dave squeezes shut his eyes. "Let's put it this way -- I've only ever flown domestic."

Steve pats his back. His tone is a mixture of pity and resignation. "I know, Dave. I know."

"No, I mean--" Dave gestures at their open flies. "What do I do? I don't know what to do!"

"Ah," Steve says, then, clasping his hands and leaning forward, "ah."

"What about you?"

Steve frowns as he studies the swooping cumulo-nimbus paisleys on the carpet. "A pilot's life is complicated, Dave."

"You don't have to tell me that!" Dave chuckles wryly and slumps a little against Steve. He's so warm through the fabric of his shirt.

"No," Steve says, "I don't suppose I do." He rubs both hands over his face, then drops them heavily. "Sorry, that's just a good line. Comes in handy."

Dave nods. "Used it myself."

Steve looks over at him. "Yeah?"

"Just this morning, actually."

Steve's arm goes around Dave's shoulders, shakes him a little and pulls him closer. "David! You dog!"

He used the line on his dry cleaner, technically, to explain why he didn't have his ticket, but if Steve wants to think it was in affairs of the heart (and groin), then Dave's cool with letting him believe that.

Steve kisses him again, all smeary and slow. Dave wraps his arm around Steve, responding and needing and really _hoping_. This time he'll get it right.

Hands get down pants again and it feels great, kind of squirmy and very hot. _Yearning_ , really, but then somebody moans and someone else thrusts and they both freeze.

"You go."

"No, you, please."

"I insist."

After more of that, Dave takes out his phone. "I'm going to call Bernard."

"What? Why? What could a drink-trolley jockey possibly know that we don't?"

Dave smiles. "Quite a bit, actually."

Sighing, Steve nods. "True."

"He's gay, you know. Came out to me."

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. "I always suspected something..."

"Right? He smells so good!"

"He does."

"It's a scented candle and bath routine," Dave says, "and, I assume, related body lotions and the like."

"Toners?"

"Probably. I've never seen a pore on the man. Have you?"

"Not a one." Steve covers Dave's phone with his hand. "Still, let's not call him, not unless we absolutely have to."

Under Dave's breastbone, his pulse stutters and gulps. "But--"

"Dave."

"Steve."

Steve slings his arm around Dave's shoulder and kisses his cheek with a big smacking noise. He shakes Dave a little, like he's waking him up, and presses their heads together. "We can do this!"

"We can?"

"Who are we, Dave?"

Dave gulps and tastes Steve's cologne on his lips. "Reckless flyboys up for anything?"

"Yes! We are men of the air! _Pilots!_ Sons of Lindbergh and Yeager and the Red Baron! Armstrong and Gagarin!"

"Wasn't the Red Baron a Nazi? Or do you mean Snoopy's enemy?" Dave loves that scrappy little beagle, he really does. Talk about relatable.

"All right. Scratch him, bump Gagarin up the list. Doesn't matter that he was a Communist. After all, above the clouds--"

"--we're all equal," Dave finishes for him. "It's a dictatorship of the airborne."

Steve rubs Dave's thigh; after a bit, Dave reaches over to touch Steve's neck, the hinge of his jaw and rustling edge of his hairline.

They're kissing again, in agreement and concord. They slip to the carpet, first to their knees, then down, so Dave is on his back pulling Steve over him. the night sky frames Steve, his silver corona and darkly intent gaze, his every touch a challenge and reassurance. Dave might as well be floating, the way he feels right now, bobbing up against Steve. He grasps at Steve's impressively hard ass within the regulation briefs and hears Steve panting against his mouth.

Neither one of them is the co-pilot here. It's just them, together, Steve arching in surprise and delight every time Dave fingers his crack, and Dave bucking and grinding for more friction whenever Steve teases his erection.

"Of course, even up there, we're still the ones _really_ in charge," Steve makes sure to note in the midst of it all. He strips off his shirt and tugs on Dave's tie to haul him up for another kiss.

Dave frowns. "Of course. Obviously."

They find a rhythm that's smooth and decisive, just like them, strokes and corkscrewing thrusts, timed to the escalating riot of breath and pulse. Steve's face falls open, his mouth loosely shaping Dave's name, when Dave works two fingers inside him. That's a stuttering pause, then Steve returns to stroking their dicks together, working his hips every bit as strenuously as his hand.

They come together, of course, writhing this way, then that. The tremoring pressure around Dave's fingers and the scraping burn of carpet against his back bring him close to the edge, but it's Steve's desperate grunts caught in the sticky glue of their kiss that push him over. Swooping and rising, higher and higher, chasing currents like a raptor.

Afterwards, having finally made it to the bed, they're splayed out, watching _Ice Pilots NWT_ and munching lobster rolls from room service. Steve dozes off during another of Buffalo Air's many fiscal crises. Dave steals the rest of his potato chips.

He settles down with his head against Steve's hip and tugs Steve's hand over his chest. He can see himself retiring up north, taking the controls of a DC-3 to serve the grateful remote communities, coming home to a couple retired sled dogs and Steve. They'd grill all year round, seal and moose and woolly mammoth, wear matching red onesies under their snowsuits, fuck in front of blazing fires, live out their very best lives.

It's going to be so awesome.


End file.
